We Know Not
by KatZen
Summary: Being involved in International Rescue requires training across many fields. What happens when Gordon and Scott stumble upon something they haven't mastered how to use?


**Disclaimer: see chapter…, wait, this is chapter one of a one shot. Anyway, I only own one VHS (yep, that old) of the Thunderbirds. That is all I can lay claim to in this. The puppets belong to their respective owners. The nation of Bereznick, while not real, has been derived from the comics. The nation Hoba Terra, is a creation of my imagination, as are any original character. No money is made from this – just enjoyment, I hope.**

_Being involved in International Rescue requires training across many fields. What happens when Gordon and Scott stumble upon something they haven't mastered how to use?_

We Know Not

Gasp…

Panic…

Scream…

Anything to let him know I'm still alive.

Well, maybe not scream. An International Rescue operative doesn't scream. A Tracy man doesn't scream.

I shiver violently on the stone floor; floating in and out of the stream of consciousness. I feel my left wrist – which is surprisingly bare – before remembering that they took my watch. The resentment which lies within me reaches brewing point. Without my watch, I feel vulnerable. There's no way I can contact Base or Thunderbird Five, and there's no way they can ping the location of my watch and track me. For all I know, they could think I'm lying at the bottom of the ocean. As an aquanaut, I'm struck by the irony of that.

Down the hall, I can hear them extract yells of anguish from Scott. See, I told you a Tracy man doesn't scream. Not even when they're being tortured. Hearing his yell echo and bounce of the stone walls makes my stomach flip. I swallow the vomit that is threatening to flow out of my mouth.

It's my fault he's here.

It's my fault I'm here.

It's my fault he came after me.

I should have listened…

Let me tell you how it began. A normal rescue, or so it seemed. Alan, finally being forced into fulfilling one of his rotations on Five, radioed in the call. Dad frowned as he heard and relayed the information to us. The rescue itself was a simple one to solve – a skyscraper support strut had buckled due to ferocious winds, causing the entire building to fall to its foundations. We had dealt with situations similar to it before; we had a vague idea of what to expect. It was one of the reasons why Dad had sent me, the aquanaut, instead of Virgil out on this mission. Also, I needed the practical time in the field.

The location, on the other hand, had send waves of unease down my spine. It's common knowledge that Bereznick is a torn nation, where West had collided with East, and the nation was battling to see which side won. It's a smorgasbord of cosmopolitan life mixed in with age-old traditions, set against a back-drop of mountains. It could really be a beautiful nation, if only the war would end.

Either way, we had received a call for help, and we were determined that we could, and would provide the help, and the miracle, they so badly needed. As usual, Scott took his position behind Mobile Control, monitoring and overseeing the entire rescue operation, doing what he does best. I used our equipment – mainly the Mole – to help clear the rubble of the skyscraper and pull people to safety. Using the newly installed 'auto-pilot', we had left the locked Domo acting as an additional support strut to prevent a further collapse.

"Almost done, Gordy," Scott had said, sadness and regret mingled in with his voice. In retrospect, underneath it all, I could also detect a steely undertone. Coming back here sure wasn't easy for him, and I could tell he was itching to leave this place.

"What about those hotspots?" I pointed to a smattering of red and orange against a black background.

"No." Scott's voice was clipped and precise. "We've done all we can. Trust me. You start loading up the pods. I'll inform them of the logistics and formal procedures after a disaster like this."

Well, I trust Scott, but his answer just wasn't enough for me to let it go. With his back turned to face the officials, I figured I could investigate without him knowing. What I hadn't counted on was his Spiderman-like sixth sense. He knew what I was doing.

Frustrated and angered by my actions, he sprinted towards the Mole and practically wrenched the door of its hinges.

"Are you fucking stupid?" I yelled rhetorically at him, slowing the Mole down so he could clamber in safely.

"Are you?" he countered, just as rhetorically. He opened his mouth, ready to begin his tirade, but I managed to interrupt him.

"I'm not going to leave them there," I stated adamantly, jaw set rigidly. I would fight him to the ends of the earth on this one if it meant I saved some lives. "You haven't even given one damn reason to leave them there."

Scott sighed, raked his hands over the chocolate brown curls that seem to attract women to him like they were bees and he was honey. "Stop the Mole and get out."

"Why?"

"Stop the Mole and get out!"

This time I didn't question his order.

We stood precariously on a conveniently placed, if crumbling, ledge of concrete. "Scott," I began, placing a tentative arm on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

He swallowed. "I think it may be a trap."

"What?"

"You heard me. The hotspots on the map, they're about 650 feet away from the site of the initial collapse. Geologically, the land should be barren. There should be no hotspots."

"And?" I waited patiently for the other shoe to drop. Everything Scott had said held no significance to me, even though it did sound suspicious.

"It's politics, Gordon," he explained, using the same voice he used to use when he was teaching me that one plus one was two, and not eleven, as I happened to believe. "We're in a politically unstable environment right now. The Bereznick officials want the World Government to officially recognise them as a state sovereignty, instead of a territory."

It still held no significance to me. In the distance, I could hear a faint trace of noise.

"Bereznick wants the right to rule as they see fit. No interference from other countries. Given their past track record, the World Government is reluctant to let that happen."

"Okaaay," I drawled out slowly, still wondering how it related to the people trapped. At this point, I think I was beginning to share Scott's worry and anxiety.

"I can't believe you didn't know any of this. Do you watch the news, Gordon?"

The answer to that is, yes, I do watch the news. Mainly the sporting news for the swimmers, but let's keep that between us, okay?

"Anyway, the world loves International Rescue. If we were held hostage, don't you think that would be enough leverage to give Bereznick what it wants?"

Realisation dawned. Hey, I may be slow on the uptake, but at least I catch on.

"You mean we're just pawns in this game of politics?"

"You got that right," a harsh, accented voice growled against my ear as he placed a blindfold over my eyes and bound my arms together with some rope.

* * *

><p>I open my eyes once more, soft amber blinking in the harshness of dark.<p>

"Gordon, are you okay?"

It's Scott. I wonder briefly how he managed to find me in this hell-hole.

"Gordon?" I can detect panic suppressed in my brother's voice. "Talk to me, bro."

"M'kay."

I gingerly sit up, still shivering. My eyes adjust accordingly to the darkness we're encased in. I can make out the outline of Scott. I reach out for him, surprised to feel his skin instead of the soft material of his shirt. There's a sticky residue on him. I worry about him and realise I got off lucky. They left me alone, mostly.

"What happened to you?"

"Oh, y'know, the usual," he replies dryly. "Whips and chains seem to excite them."

It takes me a moment, but I work out what he means, despite his odd phrasing. I giggle, so thankful that Scott can sense my tension. He does this a lot, tries to alleviate my pain through the use of humour.

"Really?" I quirk my eyebrow, my lips curving up into a small smile. I test the binds that are still attached to my ankles. "I thought they would be more into Uzis and Molotov cocktails."

"Well, whatever tickles their ivories."

Scott's statement jogs my memory. It has something to do with Virg. I just can't remember what.

"We gotta get out of here. Gotta go home and help set up for Virg's anniversary party."

Oh, yeah, that was it. Virgil and his wife, Gus, have been successfully married for two years now. No kids though. I know it bugs Virgil. He's talked to me about it more than once. Normally, he'd go to Scott with this problem, as we all would, but with Scott and his partner procreating at a rate that would make rabbits proud, Virgil finds it easier to come to me.

"That's today? Dammit, I forgot to get them a present."

"Forget the present," Scott grunts, fumbling to untie the knot in the rope, wincing as the skin on his back splits open from a newly acquired welt. Wordlessly, I shred one sleeve of my shirt and press it against the wound, staunching the blood flow. I form more of these makeshift bandages, covering any open and raw wounds on Scott's already battle-scarred torso. I place a strip over his stomach, feel his abdominal muscles flinch involuntarily.

"I'm not tickling you, Scott," I say, glancing at the inflicted injury. It's slashed through his wolf tattoo. Scott won't be pleased.

"I know you're not," Scott replies, smiling with satisfaction as the knot slips loose. I wriggle my feet in celebration. "Let's go, Red."

I stumble to my feet, shake at the pins and needles sensation I get. Scott stumbles too, but this is from blood loss and a lack of sugar. I wrap a supporting arm around him; let him use me as his walking stick. We collapse our way through a labyrinth of corridors, detouring into offshoots when we hear footsteps approaching. Finally, we reach what appears to be an exit.

"Just a few more steps, Scotty," I grunt, struggling not to fall under the weight of my 160 pound and 6'2" brother. At 5'11", I'm shorter and lighter than him, making it difficult for me to support him for much longer. His head droops alarmingly onto my shoulder. I break into a run, allowing his legs to drag behind us because I can tell he's about to fall. I push past my pain because his is more significant.

I want to…

No, I _need_ to get him out of the danger I placed him in. Scott's done it for me before, so I need to do the same for him.

To his credit, Scott makes it a fair bit into the dense vegetation that encapsulated our prison before his legs buckle under him. To my shame, I almost throw him off my shoulder, gasping in relief as the dead weight is lifted. I look around, amber eyes searching for something, anything that would be useful. My eyes focus on Scott's right wrist. They took his watch too, dammit.

"Hey, Scott, can you hear me?" I shake him gently.

"Yeah?"

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't go anywhere."

Scott chuckles, face down on the hardened soil. "I guess those Houdini lessons I've been taking are going to go to waste."

I tap him lightly on the shoulder and take off. I've spied some Aloe Vera, and common sense tells me that would come in useful. I break off five stems and stuff them into the only empty canister on my sash. I gather bamboo-like shoots, long and flexible, I scrape up a collection of dead leaves and head back to Scott.

True to his word, Scott hasn't moved. The material from my shirt is saturated in blood. I peel it away gently and prepare one stem of Aloe to use.

"This is gonna sting a bit," I wince an apology, offering Scott a peace offering. He accepts, and I position a piece of bark between his incisors.

"Survival 411?" he mumbles around the bark, biting slightly as the Aloe sweeps across the worst of his wounds.

"Damn straight. Aren't you glad Dad made us take those courses?"

Scott nods, grimaces and tenses as the sting reaches his brain.

"Just relax," I mutter, casting a cursory glance around the vegetation. I don't know how deep we're in, and I don't want our captors knowing we've escaped.

Scott relents; his muscles go lax underneath my hand. I weave the dry leaves together quickly; use the bamboo-like bark to tie it to his torso securely before heaving him to his unsteady feet.

"You okay?"

Scott nods, glances down at my not-so-skilled first aid. He's more leaves and bamboo knots than bare skin now. "Y'know, in another life, you could have been a fashion designer."

I sigh mournfully, dramatically as we begin to move. "Oh, if only. Think of all the models I'm missing out on."

"I'd feel sorry for the models," Scott quips, breath hitching as he keeps up with the ridiculously fast pace I've set.

I skid to a dead stop, stare at Scott. I deliberately draw tears in my eyes. "Okay, _that _hurt, Scott."

Scott grabs me by the scruff of my neck, pushes me, and propels me forward. I've never been able to fool him.

"No, it's just the truth. Face it, Gordy, you're a philanderer. You are the love 'em and leave 'em kinda guy."

I have no quick witted comeback, so I carry on running. My foot catches under a tree root, but Scott, ever present, hauls me upright.

We career wildly through the forest for minutes, for hours. I don't know. I lose all sense of time, all sense of direction here. It is just tree after tree after bloody tree. We may have been running valiantly in circles all this time.

I don't know.

I know not.

I don't know.

With every heartbeat, every step I take slamming on the hard topsoil, I am reminded of this fact.

The best thing about having Scott with me is that he is able to pick up on my fears and worry and reassure me that everything will work out, in spite of his own fear, worry and pain. He'll even attempt to crack a joke at times. Following convention, he'll always reveal the punch line to the joke, and then proceed to explain it when I don't laugh, but at this current juncture in time, I don't care. I rely on him to be my emotional support while we're missing in action, and he relies on me to be his physical one.

"Do you see that?" Scott gasps, sagging against me slightly. Alarmingly, I feel his five o'clock shadow bristles scrape over the shoulder seam of my top and I yank him up from his slouching position. Can't be good for his back to be so slouched, and it certainly doesn't do any favours for me.

I spare a glance at the horizon, suddenly aware of the temperature drop in ambient environment. The sun has set, and evening is upon us. Instinctively, I pull Scott closer to me, both an act of comfort and as a means of keeping him as warm as possible.

"I think it's a…" Scott trails off. He's forever leaving sentences unfinished. Normally, I wouldn't mind, but in this life or death situation, it really pisses me off. "Nah, I'm hallucinating."

"Just tell me what you see," I grit out, as sweat from when we were moving has taped my hair to my eyes. I squint through the haze of red and make out a semi-circle in the background.

"I see our ticket to freedom."

Those six little words fill me with renewed hope. "What does it look like? It is fast, shiny and silver?"

"Err, not quite." Scott tugs my arm in one direction and we scramble blindly towards ecstasy.

"I haven't seen one of these since I was four," Scott whispers reverently. It means that I haven't seen whatever it is, well, ever.

Checking that Scott had grabbed onto the nearest stable structure, I rake a hand through the copper hair I have been graced with. "What the hell is it?"

"It's a hot air balloon," Scott laughs painfully, his laughter deepening at my incredulous expression. "You must have learnt about it in History."

I shake my head. If it had nothing to do with swimming, I wasn't interested.

"You're a pilot," I begin.

"Thanks for pointing that out," Scott parries dryly.

"You can fly this thing." I pause meaningfully. "You _can_ fly this thing, can't you?"

Scott grins ruefully. "No. I'm a pilot, not a balloonatic."

"It's the same principles, though," I press. "Isn't it?"

"No!" Scott protests. "There are no wings, no rudders, ailerons. Hell, there's no landing gear either. If, in the unlikely event we manage to get this thing up in the air, I have no idea how to get the thing back down."

I stare glumly at our ticket to freedom. "It's the only thing IR hasn't trained us for."

I'm still contemplating hopping in the wicker basket and having a play around in our newly discovered toy, but the decision is taken out of my hands. We hear an irate yell not too far from our current location.

"We must be close to our captors," Scott states, hurrying towards the wicker basket.

I topple head first into the container. "Thank you for startling observation, Captain Obvious. Your powers of deduction astound me."

"You're more than welcome, Lieutenant Sarcasm," Scott bitches back, uncharacteristic scowl on his face. "Now, get up and make yourself useful. Untie the ropes that are holding us down."

I comply. "Sure thing, Colonel Comeback."

"Don't be such a Major Pain-in-the-Ass," Scott smirks, fiddling with a valve. It promptly shoots out fire and the balloon hovers a few inches in the air. "So this is how it works!" He shoots another spurt of fire up into the balloon and we rise higher.

I peek at the wicker basket. It strikes me that it's just pieces of flexible wood woven together. "Scott, what if the basket breaks? I think our combined weight might be too much for the basket."

"Don't worry," Scott dismisses with a wave of his hand. "It's stronger than it looks."

We float up into blue oblivion. I have a birds-eye view of the rescue sight. "Scott, look!" I point in some random direction. "It's our Birds. Get us there!"

"I can't! I can only control going up. I can't get us down, and I can't move us from side-to-side. We go wherever the wind takes us."

I humph, cross my arms. I spy some orange material floating in the wind and grab onto it. "Hey, Scott, what does this do?"

He looks at it, eyes tracking its point-of-origin. "I think it holds the hot air balloon's material in shape. Don't touch it, because we actually need it for the balloon to fly."

Not wanting to endanger our lives any further, I let the orange kite tail flutter out of my hand.

We float aimlessly. Scott occasionally fires some more hot air into the balloon and sticks his head out to admire the view. I, on the other hand, slouch in a small corner of the wicker basket. I'll be honest; I'm bored. I hate remaining idle, and it's all I can do up here.

Moments, or maybe hours later, Scott jabs my leg with his foot. "Gordy, do you want the good news, the bad news or the really bad news?"

I'm an optimist. I choose the good news.

"Well, we're definitely coming down."

It's true. I can feel the pressure change and my ears pop.

"The bad news?"

Scott rubs a hand over his shoulder. "We're out of fuel."

"And the really bad news?"

"We're gonna land in water."

That's the really bad news? Scott must have two screws loose if that's the really bad news. If there was a bottle of champagne on board, I would have popped the cork in celebration.

"We'll have to swim to land," Scott clarifies; puzzled at the grin that graces my face.

Again, is that the bad news? I can swim. Hell, I won an Olympic gold medal for swimming. Finally, I am going to be in my element!

We land with a rather big splash. Water floods the wicker basket, causing the balloon to sink and submerge itself under the weight. Scott and I float to the surface. Scott hisses in pain as my designer top disintegrates when it meets with water. The salt attacks his wounds and it pains him. I'd know that better than anyone.

I instruct him to stop struggling, tell him to float on his back. I place two fingers under his chin and buddy-tow him back to the nearest place of terra firma I can find.

It takes longer than I anticipated, and by the time I drag us both up, coughing and spluttering, my arms feel like they could happily drop off and die.

"Where are we?" I gag.

"I don't know, but I hope it's not a conservative nation," Scott frowns, knowing that his unclad torso may cause some problems down the line.

"Well, we gotta find out." With Herculean effort, I push myself off the sand and head to the dirt road I can see in the distance. As I approach, I come across a sign. "Scott, what does Hoba Terra mean? It sounds ominous."

Scott catches up and sags. Whether it is in relief or horror, I cannot tell. "New Land," Scott replies. "John told me when we were teens that it means new land. Ultra conservative."

"If we come across any more trees, I'd happily strip it of its leaves to fashion you a top."

Scott thinks I'm kidding, but I'm deadly serious. I would do anything to get him out of this, especially as it's my fault he's here with me.

"Don't blame yourself, Gordon," Scott says, reading my mind. Have I mentioned how disconcerting it is when he does that? "I'd rather be here with you, than stuck in Bereznick without you."

And that, for some reason, almost makes me break down and cry. This is what I love about Scott – not that I'd ever vocalise it – but I love the fact that he can be so easy to forgive his brothers once they realise that they made a mistake.

"C'mon, bro," Scott steers me by my shoulders before letting go. In an ultra conservative like Hoba Terra, any type of physical contact makes people uncomfortable.

We walk on, before coming across a military base. I feel Scott move behind me, slouch, hoping he can avoid offence to the citizens of Hoba Terra from his semi-naked state. It doesn't work. The guard approaches us, machine gun raised. Through mad hand gestures and spiels of broken English, I establish that both Scott and I are the missing members of International Rescue, and that it is imperative that we use their communication devices to contact our base. The guard checks with his superior officer and with a beckon of his gun, he leads us in. Scott is thrown a baby-blue t-shirt, which he quickly pulls on over his head, delighted at the colour. There is some resemblance between that blue and IR blue.

Now we're both suitably dressed, we are led to a small room with one radio broadcaster.

Scott clears his throat and opens an airwave. "Calling International Rescue. Come in, International Rescue."

We wait, wait for Alan to acknowledge our call.

"Scott! Where the hell are you? And what happened to your shirt?"

"Long story," Scott rolls those blue eyes of his that have women melting in a puddle on the floor. It's too bad for them that he's happily married. "Let Dad know we're in Hoba Terra."

"I'll let him know. He's been having kittens when he realised you and Gordon were missing in action."

"That would be incredibly painful for Dad," I quip, letting Alan know I'm there as well, even though Scott has used the plural in his conversation.

"I'll let him know," Alan grins. "Anything else? I mean, would you like me to place out a call to the local pizza parlour that delivers? You're in the middle of nowhere – thirty minutes or it's free."

"That'd be wonderful." Scott's stomach grumbles in agreement with my statement.

"Also," I continue, "Let Dad know that there's one thing IR hasn't trained us for."

I can almost imagine Alan's eyebrows raised so high they're in danger of climbing off his head.

"Oh yeah? What is it?"

I sigh, knowing that the end to this ordeal is coming. "Well, Scott crashed into water when he was using this, and he's a trained pilot, so I think we all need lessons in flying a hot air balloon."


End file.
